sun through the smog
by Miss Mungoe
Summary: There are a lot of things she regrets. He, surprisingly, isn't one of them. – set during Jak II; Ashelin and a certain tattooed wonder. It's hard keeping a healthy relationship running smoothly when you've got some seriously divided loyalties.


AN: A little look at the various events in Jak II, from the perspectives of our two tattooed, dreadlocked dorks who really don't get enough love.

Disclaimer: The Jak & Daxter franchise is property of Naughty Dog; I own absolutely nothing.

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**sun through the smog**

by Miss Mungoe

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Part 1: _bright as metal, red as blood_

"Big Daddy letting you out on your own now? Colour me surprised."

She turned at the sound of his voice, brows furrowed in a glare, but then she hadn't expected him to be polite. Not after their last conversation. But she wasn't about to apologize for that – she'd made that clear when they'd parted ways. She wasn't one to go back on her word, and even less so when she felt she was in the right.

And so, "I won't take that patronizing crap from _you_," she said instead, and shifted her weight to her hip. "And if that's all you've got you might as well crawl back into the sewers with the rats. I came here to talk, not fling feces."

Torn snorted, and crossed his arms over his chest, and she followed the hard lines of his face with her eyes. It had only been a month, but renegade life had left its marks already, evident in the deep shadows under his eyes and the new lines at the corners of his downturned mouth. She vaguely remembered a time he'd used to have laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes, but that seemed a man's age ago now.

"Finally put on a few years to compensate for your old-assed mental age, I see," she remarked as she leaned against the hood of her hellcat, mimicking his gesture as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Or is that the look all the hot-shot rebels are wearing these days? I wouldn't know, of course, being the rich, _daddy's_ _girl_ that I am."

The words fell like a conviction, but he didn't so much as flinch, though by the darkening of his gaze she didn't for a second doubt he remembered the remark he'd throw in her face when he'd left.

But he didn't rise to the bait, although she couldn't for the life of her understand why she wanted him to. They'd screamed enough insults at each other already. Maybe it was the exhaustion she could see clinging to his rigid shoulders – that seemed to drag him down like a weight. He'd discarded his old uniform, but the mantle of the Underground seemed to rest heavier than armoured plates, and he looked _tired._ A good screaming match might have sparked some life back into his eyes, but he didn't seem to be up for it.

"You know," he began then, "shooting me would probably spare you a lot of grief."

She snorted. "For all the trouble your insubordination's given me? Too easy."

"Ashe."

She breathed out through her nose – the gesture sharp, explosive, to keep herself from snapping something she'd regret. "I haven't forgiven you."

He sighed, and when he spoke his voice was gruffer than usual. "I hadn't expected you to."

"I'm still angry."

"I'd be honestly worried if you weren't."

She glared. Then, "Are you still holding my choice against me?"

He hesitated at that, and the silence spoke for itself. Her hands clenched into fists where she kept them, tucked into her elbows. "I don't agree with it," he answered at length, and though it was a damn lot more cordial than what he'd told her a month ago, it still felt like an accusation.

"Not all of us can run off to become renegades, Torn."

"You can," he said. "You just won't."

"I have a duty to my men," she said. "And my father."

"Your father is running the city into the ground, Ashe." And there was a spark of anger now – just a flicker, but hot enough to make the hairs on her arms stand on end. "If you'd stop for a second to think like yourself and not like his daughter–"

"I am _thinking_," she snapped, pushing herself away from the hellcat as she stalked towards him, pointing a finger to keep herself from drawing her gun, "like a _leader._ Something you should be able to recognize. Don't for a second think you're somehow any better just because my men wear the uniform and not the rags your resistance boys run around in. I will not abandon them any more than you would yours."

He hadn't moved an inch at her advance, and only raised a brow at her words. "Are you telling me this because you believe that, or because you want me to? Those aren't the words of a leader. A leader wouldn't abandon her own _people_ for the sake of family."

She levelled him with a cold look. "And you would know all about abandoning family, wouldn't you, Torn?"

He glared. "At least I made a choice I can live with. How are you sleeping these days?"

She raised her chin at that. "From the looks of things, better than you are."

"Even knowing what your father is doing? The _experiments_ he's conducting?"

"I've never said I condone his actions," she said. "But I stand by what I said – he is still my _father_, Torn, and I can't just take off and run away!"

"If you would just stop thinking like a _child–_"

She snorted. "At least I'm not the one with the mindset of a middle-aged man."

He glared at her, and there wasn't a trace of humour in his gaze. "This isn't a joke, Ashe."

She glared back. "Am I smiling?"

He said nothing to that, but she didn't back down. There'd once been a time he'd never have dared talk to her in such a way – when he'd added 'ma'am' to every sentence and hadn't been able to bring himself to meet her gaze directly. Then there'd been a time where he'd learned when and where to take certain liberties. Now it seemed he was beyond both. Part of her should have relished in it – he'd always been too damn polite for his own good, but it only served to underline the fact that he no longer considered himself part of her world. His decision to leave the KG had put one hell of a strain on their relationship, but she'd let him leave when he'd wanted to. She hadn't reported his whereabouts to her father, and had feigned ignorance when asked. She'd covered for him when he'd cut his ties to the garrison, but what was so infinitely worse than his choice to leave her in the first place, was his own inability to understand her choice to _stay._

His gaze softened then, and he ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Any news on the program?"

She paused a moment, the words lurking at the tip of her tongue as she teetered between decisions, angry that he thought he could spout his righteous, rebel crap to her face, and then turn around and ask for information he'd never get his hands on without her. And she was tempted to tell him that, and to take his blatant double-standards and shove them up his ass.

But then she remembered the reports, and the few, gruesome photographs and the recordings she'd salvaged. _Damn it. _"Only more casualties, but by the time I got to the files most of them were gone – someone's doing a good job wiping the slate clean. But there's at least one still alive."

He swore under his breath. "_One_?"

She shrugged. "It's dark eco – one is more than should even be possible. Hell if I know how anyone could make it this far."

He paced then, like a restless, trapped animal, and now she really did wonder when the last time was he'd had a full night's sleep.

"Torn." She caught his elbow, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, and he halted in his tracks, and inclined his head to look at her. She tightened her grip, but the words refused to leave her mouth, lodged like lead in the base of her throat. She sighed. "Be careful," she said instead. "He's increasing patrols in the slums."

His fingers curled into fists against his sides, and for a moment he seemed uncharacteristically indecisive, but then he nodded. "You too. If he finds out–"

"He won't," she assured him, completely disregarding the fact that she couldn't well go ahead and promise something she wasn't entirely sure of herself. "I'll make sure he doesn't." _For whatever that's worth. _

He looked at her then, long and hard, and she startled when he reached up to touch her face, fingers brushing against her hair. They didn't kiss, because there was too much anger there still, and not the good kind. Not the playful, simmering kind that would have made her want to shove him up against the wall. No, this was raw anger, cold and hard and biting like frost – the kind that wasn't quite so easily quelled by desire. It would take time, yet, to breach the gap they'd put between them.

When he pulled his hand back she didn't stop him, and when he turned to leave she didn't follow, but remained by her hellcat as she watched him go, the rigid lines of his shoulders hard under the weight of his phantom responsibilities. She watched him vanish into the shadows, and then she turned back to her cruiser, the glare of the red metal bright under the cold desert sun cutting through the overcast sky and the city fumes. Her hands shook as she got into the driver's seat, and anger – righteous anger lingering in the wake of their words and the unspoken gestures and implications and years and _years_ of trusting their backs to each other only to get to this point, trembled like bile in the bottom of her throat.

And atop it all, an even worse feeling. Doubt, cold and numbing and unshakable now that it had taken hold of the roots of her tired, battle-worn heart.

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AN: Because the game was always very vague on how and why Ashelin became a spy for the Underground. Going by her loyalty to her father, I don't think she turned quite so easily, and this fic will elaborate a little on that. If you've got any thoughts so far, I'd love to hear them.


End file.
